Sweet Remembrance
by reginavictoria
Summary: A young flapper remembers her father and her father's friend. Yes, it is quite depressing... but not pointlessly so. Rated T for drama only. Now completed...
1. Chapter 1

_Against all my better judgement I've started another story. This simply would not go out of my mind and so I had to write it despite the pile of homework in front of me. I promise to see it through to the end, though. Reviews greatly appreciated._

* * *

A somber aura of reverence reigned in the elegant, smoke filled London nightclub, out of respect for the news of death its proprietor had just announced on the platform. The orchestra promptly ceased its happy strains of upbeat jazz, and young couples, previously reveling in the steps of their favorite dance, abruptly paused with looks of utter bewilderment and incomprehension.

At a cue from the proprietor, the orchestra broke out into the proud strains of the national anthem; at which the club's illustrious patrons stood up, whether willingly or unwillingly.

When it was at last over , a slightly inebriated young man staggered towards a table where two young women were seated , plopping himself down in the nearest chair. With evident annoyance he glanced at the now empty dance floor, and then at the orchestra members who were leaving for the night. In the corner entered their replacement, an elegantly dressed middle aged woman, who began to softly play a mellow tune on the piano.

"I say... that's not half as good as the band " the tipsy young man said loudly to his table companions, crushing his cigarette brusquely in the ashtray. "And what's-his-name, that old chap, chose the most inconvenient time to pop off. Imagine having to be interrupted in the middle of the Charleston when we were having such a smashing time, just to stand in silence and say a few words in remembrance of an old legend of a man for whom it could not possibly do any good now—" He stopped. From across the table there came a deathly silencing stare of intense contempt.

"I say, Anna…" The man's flippant manner faded. "did I say something wrong?"

"You _always_ say something wrong, Freddy." Said the other young woman at the table, rolling her eyes. "The band would have left soon anyway…. And don't you have any respect for the dead?" she said, downing the contents of her glass with an unstable hand, the bangles on her wrist announcing her every move.

Freddy said nothing but quietly spent some time contemplating Anne, who sat with her head lowered,the golden curls of her bob covering part of her face. Tears that refused to obey her restraints brimmed and began to slightly moisten her thick makeup.

Then slowly, very slowly, a look of enlightenment arose in Freddy's eyes.

"I say, Anna." He began hesitantly. "Your last name… your real last name, that is. Are you…? You never told us…"

"And what would it matter to you if I was, Freddy? To you he was just some old useless legend of a man. What earthly difference does it make to you, who only care about the next dance or drink?" Her blue eyes burned with indignation.

"So you are, then. You never told us." He murmured again. "I didn't know…. Truly… I am sorry."

Her eyes softened after a while as she stared at him.

"Of course you didn't know. And if I didn't know him, fool that I am, I would have acted just as you had. Not fair… nor logical of me to be angry with you...we are no different, except for that one advantage."

The other young woman looked up quickly, finally realizing exactly what had transpired.

"Ah…really, Anna? How thrilling. I never quite made the connection with your name and all, and with him and your father...do tell us what it was like." She said with a beckoning sweep of her jingling arms.

Anna looked at her friend amusedly.

"Far different from all this…" They stared at her incomprehensively. She merely shrugged and smiled and surveyed her surroundings.

And what would he have said, had he a chance to see her again, and to know where she was right now and what she was doing with her life? They would not be words of approval to be sure. Words of disappointment, no doubt, and a lecture on the virtues of objectivity and cold-blooded discipline and rationalism .

But at this moment, she knew she would give anything, nearly anything, to hear one of those lectures again, from that tall, formidable but reassuring figure, dressed in gray tweed that matched the austerity of his eyes.,


	2. Chapter 2

_What can I say? Classes aren't particularly going well and I'm enjoying writing. Hope you enjoy reading it. _

* * *

Anna Watson slightly reclined in her chair, glad that her companions now seemed to be ignoring her for the present, lost in their own rambling conversation, their senses too blurred to desire to question her farther or to even remember what had just been said.

As she reclined she exhaled a sigh of relief. For the past few years she had occasionally thought about this day and this announcement with dread. She had expected to burst into tears, to make one of her famous dramatic exits in front of everyone, only this time the drama would not be acting on her part. And so she was relieved that the short sensation of heartache had passed, that she was now thinking and remembering it all with a kind of dispassionate contemplation that the detective himself would have approved of.

But no, it wasn't quite dispassionate… more like a calm but mournful evaluation of a time period and of a man that had just died, like all time periods and people do. And like all dead things one simply could not bring it back.

She closed her eyes. She had not drank quite as much as Freddy or Georgy but the brandy together with the mellow tinkling of the piano produced a pleasingly drowsy effect. It seemed she could remember better this way…it was all so vivid now.

Physically her thoughts were not far away. She was a scarce two miles or so from her current position, in the heart of London , traveling on foot to a place called Baker Street.

Except that it was twenty years ago, and she was a little girl again.

***

Her hand was in what seemed to her the enormous hand of her father. She was staring up at him, craning her neck to do so, so that she could see all the way to the top of his tall black hat. He smiled cheerfully at the sight of her face ,his fine teeth appearing from underneath his dark moustache.

"Come on now, only a little a way to go" He cajoled as his strong arm guided her over the cobbled streets.

"What should I call him, Daddy?" she had asked with the all the gravity of her five year old mind. "Mummy said I should call him 'uncle''

John Watson let out a full and healthy laugh of pure amusement.

"Uncle Sherlock!! Haha…. ." His eyes twinkled with mirth and he stopped in his tracks.. "What devilishly mischievous humor your mother is capable of ! Haha…Uncle Sherlock, indeed,…I'll give a gold sovereign just to see his reaction…" He composed himself. "Yes, dear… Call him that if you like. But be respectful, mind you. "

She had nodded solemnly. It seemed he needn't have told her that; she was not predisposed to think of him as a figure one should be bold with. From snatches of her father's frequent references to him she imagined him much like Father Christmas, possessing the mysterious power of knowing what you had been doing and for how long, only much more stern and formidable, and decidedly lacking the excitingly cheerful connotation.

Soon they stopped at a rather undistinguished, ordinary door.

"Bless my soul, it's Dr. Watson!" The older lady's blue eyes danced with excitement and it seemed she must summon all her decorum to keep from throwing her arms around his neck as he stood in the doorway. "And where is Mrs. Watson?"

"At home with a slight cold, I'm afraid. She sends her warmest regards…. But how good it is to see you again, Mrs. Hudson!" He kissed the older lady's hand gallantly.

"Dr. Watson." She repeated fondly. "And this is Miss Anna, I presume…. I suppose you don't remember me, young lady?" She moved towards the said Miss Anna, and cupped her face in her hands. The girl couldn't help smiling shyly in return at the kindly countenance before her.

"Mostly likely not, I'm afraid. Two and a half years is an eternity to a mind as young as hers." Watson smiled faintly.

"That long then? I suppose your occasional letters helped me to forget somewhat…. As they helped another certain party who would have my head should he know I even hinted at the possibility."

"That certain party is at home, I hope."

The unrestrained, crashing grind of doublestops played on what must be a stringed instrument from upstairs made it unnecessary for Mrs. Hudson to answer the question.

Watson laughed again and, picking his daughter up in his arms, quietly proceeded up the 17 steps closer to that unnerving noise. Gently he put her down before entering the open door.

"Really, Holmes. How long do you plan to keep playing that awful thing?" He said loudly over the violin's tortured notes, as he stepped in with the ordinary air of one who is just entering his quarters.

A tall figure stood facing the window, his back to the door. Traces of a suppressed smile of delight could be observed on his lean face when he calmly and slowly turned around.

"I see two years of overseas travel have only served to strengthen your vein of pawky humor."

"Which I can no longer maintain for the present, I'm afraid. " He walked towards him and grasped his sinewy arm. "It's good to see you, Holmes!"

"The sentiment is mutual, my dear fellow. Two years of cases gone by…" His eyes ran over him and briefly glanced at the little girl. "Mrs. Watson is indisposed with a cold, I see."

"Unfortunately, yes. Which I am sure you deduced partly by the fact that she would have came here with me under nearly any circumstance besides ill health, and that I would have not came here if that illness was a serious one."

"And that you have a slight sniffle yourself." He remarked with a smile. "And this is young Anna, I take it." He said, his gaze fized on the little girl who was trying to hide herself behind her father's trouser legs.

"Indeed it is." Watson steered her gently in front of him. "She's grown up quite a bit then when you last saw her…. Come now, Anna. What do you say?"

The girl's blue eyes looked up at this unusual creature, taller even than her father, his eyes and features much like a certain bird of prey she had been frightened of while watching a hunt.

"Hello…. Uncle Sherlock." She murmured, afterwards quickly staring down at her toes.

Holmes' reaction was perhaps not quite as satisfactory a one as his friend had been expecting., but still telling. The signs of blushing embarrassment and awkwardness were the most prominent emotions that were fleetingly displayed on his face as he averted his eyes to the window for some time. He composed himsel f with an abrupt clearing of the throat.

"Well, I must congratulate you Watson… she looks remarkably healthy… and her air of alertness shows she will have an above average capacity of observation if developed properly. " He blurted out as though he were reciting a scientific report. "But she seems quite timid…"

"Timid? Far from it,my dear fellow. She is, in fact, one of the least timid children I have yet encountered."

The two friends talked for a while longer, and unconsciously moved to seat themselves. Anna Watson stood watching them, directly in the middle of the sitting room rug.

"A _gentleman _always offers a lady a chair." Her small, petulant voice intoned with grave solemnity as her light blue eyes fixed firmly on the detective's gray ones. She stood with remarkable poise for one so young, so much that that the two men stared at her with some wonder before Watson broke the silence with his laughter.

"Now Anna…"

"But she is right, you know." Holmes solemnly rose to his feet with a slight bow. "I hope you forgive my lack of courtesy, Miss Watson. You are entirely correct in your observation. Won't you sit down?" He offered her the other armchair.

When she was seated Holmes had sat down with a faint smile and resumed the conversation. Anna quietly sat through to the end.

"I must apologize to you, Watson." He said later, when they were about to leave.

"Whatever for?"

"For underestimating the astuteness of your offspring." He said, nodding to Anna who stood outside near the bannister. "She is not merely a healthy, normal child, but I believe an extraordinary one, with exceptional talent. Undoubtedly her talent will lead to great things…Perhaps the stage…"

"Thank you for your compliment, my dear fellow….And I've no doubt you're right. But it is rather early to be predicting the future. She is so young, still a little child."

"It is not necessary to give thanks for an observation of fact, my dear Watson. And it is a proven fact that good qualities and virtues in youth will grow into a solid, well-rounded character if cultivated properly, as I am sure you and Mrs. Watson will provide."

***

"Anna?... Anna!" Georgy fairly yelled in her ear, and she inhaled the odor of gin.

"They're closing in a few minutes. We'd better get Freddy a taxi… they might throw him out " She looked at the young man who lay slumped unconsciously over the table, a ridiculous smile of irony on his face.

"All right." She sighed. Briefly she thought back to her interrupted reverie. Sherlock Holmes, the great mind of the century, had told her she was extraordinary, that she would grow into a well-rounded British citizen of no small intelligence.

Well, she thought. His prediction that she would be an actress had been correct, anyway. She sighed again and hiccoughed.


	3. Chapter 3

_Excluding myself I know there are at least two people reading it, so I'm continuing anyway :) _

* * *

Anna rubbed her head, attempted to rise from her pillow, and then decided it was not worth the effort. Through nothing short of a miracle she had somehow found her way home last night—or perhaps an obliging policeman had done it for her.

She inwardly protested at the sight of her maid's annoyingly cheerful face by her bedside, highlighted by the sun streaming through the window. Jill laughed -loudly- and placed a breakfast tray on the bed.

"Brought you the newspaper, for when you're well enough to read it… plenty of good things they said about you in the reviews."

"Thank you." She managed to murmur.

An hour or so passed. The sunlight's blinding brilliancy gradually faded and the caffeine began to work its powers.

Anna lazily unrolled the newspaper and began to flip through the sections, when suddenly a sketch of a man caught her attention. It caught her attention because it had almost seemed not as though she had glanced at the sketch, but that the sketch had glanced at her, like some stern reminder of the existence of her conscience.

She looked away with painful remembrance when she saw the headline above the drawing, then forced herself to look back and meet the severity of Sherlock Holmes' eyes, and the black print that spelled out the solemn news.

She scanned down the column. The usual things were said, the usual sentiments expressed. Yet what struck her most deeply was one short sentence, buried in a paragraph towards the very end. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is survived by no children."

"Survived by no children." Cold words to her, for whatever inarticulate reason. Lonely words that cut harshly as she thought about a small, now-empty cottage in the Sussex Downs.

***

It was another day and another visit between the two old friends. Mother was gone on an errand. She had been outside, playing with the cat and had came in for a moment to warm herself. Very distinctly she heard her name mentioned in passing from behind the sitting room doors; she knew they were discussing her most recent exploits at school. She crept quitely in front of the door, parting the doors ever so slightly to peek through , concentrating on the task of eavesdropping.

"…I do insist. It is a simple matter, my dear fellow. You and Mrs. Watson spoil the girl too much… therefore she feels she has the prerogative to do what she pleases"

"She has a high spirit" she heard her father's voice raise a little. " Far be it from me to squelch it."

"It would take more than a little well intended discipline to squelch her spirit. How can you not see? Brilliancy is wasted, wasted in so many people because it is not channeled into the proper pursuits when young. Anna has, among many things, sharpness of mind and a great deal of courage. And how is she using it? By devising pranks and schemes, and indulging in general rudeness with her instructors. A little firmness on your part, and--"

"I was not aware you knew so much upon the subject." Watson interrupted petulantly.

" Well, undoubtedly I do not have your experience—but that does not make my reasoning any less valid. Of course I am aware the girl is dear to you both, as your only child. But if you did not dote on her so, did not always allow her to have her own way—"

"Anna is not your daughter, Holmes, nor even your relative that you should concern yourself with her upbringing. And when I need advice in raising my own daughter, I shall not seek it from those who have never raised children, nor will ever have enough affection nor patience to do so!"

Young though she was, she felt it would have been less painful for her father to jab a needle into his friend, such was the expression she read on Holmes' face, subtle though it was.

Yet within the space of a few minutes it was gone, and she nearly sighed with relief from being spared from seeing him made vulnerable.

Her father's expressive face bore genuine regret.

"I'm sorry, old fellow… I don't what came over me. Forgive me, will you?"

"There is nothing to forgive." He said resolvedly, with the slightest waver of the voice. "You are partly right. I have no experience with children and never shall. And I had no business meddling in your family affairs."

"Nonsense. You are my closest friend, and Anna is quite fond and respectful of you as she is noone else. Of course you have a right to be concerned for her. And as to children, I've no doubt you would be most excellent father, Holmes, certainly a wiser one than me…"

He smiled faintly and patted his friend's shoulder. "Good old Watson! Quick to admit that he is at fault…too quick. "

"But I am, mostly. The truth is an inconvenient thing, you know. People loath to be criticized on those faults which they know they possess. I suppose I do let her have her own way often. But she is a good child. So often I see the best of both I and my wife in her… and we love her so dearly."

"I know, Watson. Believe me when I say my criticism was well intentioned. Let us forget about it for now."

She had stood there by the doorway, quietly absorbing the scene, never guessing that years later she would wonder how she could ever have taken it for granted; the warmth; the security of being genuinely loved and protected by such people.

***

First Father… than Mother. And now him. The final link to those happier days was now gone. She should have went to him, visited him at least once more in spite of circumstances and her pride. She thought of the loneliness of the rolling countryside… of an old man bent with arthritis, with only his bees for company…and perhaps not even those when he was unable to walk outside.

She fixed her eyes on a point of the wall and bit her lower lip, her hand clutching and wrinkling the newspaper.

"The reviews were wonderful, weren't they?" Jill had popped back in the room and was bustling around.

"Hmmm?" she said wearily, forcing herself to relax and look up. "Oh yes, divine…" She drawled sarcastically and reached up for her cigarette holder.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank you all for the reviews! So now there's seven people reading it! Let's see if I can manage to keep them! :D_

_By the way, rest assured all this depression does have a point to it . Hope everyone has a blessed Easter._

* * *

She strolled down the walk at the edge of the Thames, her face blank and expressionless. The bleak, gray shade of the sky and water fit her mood exactly.

Somewhere among the throngs of people, near a park bench she caught sigh of a lanky, tow-headed figure, waving its arms and maneuvering itself towards her. She couldn't help but give an amused smile at the sight of Freddy's unpretentious face.

"I see you managed to recover from last night." She remarked wryly when he had approached.

"Almost as well as you." He grinned back.

She took his arm and they strolled together as he chatted to her of pleasantly inconsequential matters. She smiled absently, taking pleasure in the warmth of his company. For the first time it occurred to that she liked Freddy when he was sober.

"Anna?" He had at last noticed she was not in a communicative mood.

"Yes?"

"I vaguely recall I said something to upset you last night--"

"Oh, forget it.." She said with a frown at having remembered again, and turned her face towards the river.

"Ah- I remember now. Your father's detective friend. I am sorry."

She nodded quickly and silently and wished he would change the subject.

"It's occurred to me Anna... you never talk much about your past. Or your family, for that matter."

"No." she looked up at him, with a smile tinged with bitterness. "I suppose no one was genuinely interested."

"I am, you know."

She smiled, this time without bitterness. His glance was simple and earnest, and warm as a young puppy.

Quietly she sat down on a bench. He followed suit.

"...Would you like to see them?"

"Of course."

Carefully she took from her handbag a well polished gold watch.

"My father's." She explained. "He kept a picture of mother inside it... carried it with him everywhere... on his doctor's rounds, on cases with Holmes, even on the battlefield. He died four years after the war. Mother followed him three years ago... And I replaced it with a picture of them together, you see." Her thin fingers opened the watch to reveal the photograph.

"I say," He said, holding the watch close to his face. "They're a smashing couple. Your mother's a beauty; just like you. And your father's not a bad-looking chap either. Both very dignified people."

"They were wonderful, fine people..." she trailed off and looked down at the pavement, and then back up at him. "And you, Freddy?"

"My parents? My mother died when I was 6 or so... My old man sent me off to boarding school shortly thereafter. He's somewhere off in Paris, I guess, with my stepmother." He paused quietly. "You're lucky, you know; having the memories of them at least. I'm sure they loved you."

"As I loved them. I've done a shoddy job of showing it, though. I wanted so much to make them proud of me, you see..."

"Nonsense! Of course they would be proud of you! You're a beautiful, intelligent woman... a talented, successful actress..."

Something in that sentence unleashed a portion of the emotions she had tightly restrained until now.

"You're too good, Freddy. Either that or blind. I haven't acted in a real play since school. Do you presume to call that tinsel display last week a play? I certainly don't. It's a glittering, superficial sham of a show, in which I walk up and down in a gaudy costume that displays my figure to the best advantage while I blurt out some supposedly witty lines to the awe of a dumbstruck audience . They believe I'm good; not because I've demonstrated any ability, but because the elite critics told them so.

"As for my success, most of the time it's simple: just a small matter of capitalizing on my attractiveness to the stage producer. A few more connections pulled, and "bling!". I have the part, it's a raving success on the opening night.... prodigious amount of money is made; they throw a party for me, I get drunk and go home with some handsome fellow or another... and it starts all over again!"

She smiled at him with mock glee, bordering on the edge of hysteria.

"So, Freddy, there's the essence of my success. I'm not an actress; I'm a showgirl. Or no, not even that, since there are respectable showgirls. I'm more like--"

"Stop it, Anna! This is madness... You've done no worse than many others."

"Ah, yes... the eternally convenient justification." She laughed bitterly, looking at his concerned face. "Oh, don't fear, Freddy. I'm not waxing prudish or developing a righteous conscience or anything like that. I'm far too comfortable with the current arrangement."

He shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

"I scarcely do myself... It's just that... surely you get tired of it sometimes? The cycle of... being born and reproducing and dying.... for no reason except to have a few laughs and perhaps some pleasure along the way."

"Don't be so gloomy, Anna! Life's not entirely like that, Life can be fulfilling and..."

"And what? Glorious? You don't sound entirely convinced yourself, Freddy." She laughed again in a manner that made him wince.

"Well, I admit, I'm scarcely qualified to talk of that. But there are others..."

"Like my Mother and Father? Like Sherlock Holmes? Stoically heroic?" She held up her arm mockingly in the manner of a crusader, then lowered it. "Well it's no use now. They're all dead now, dead and gone forever, good people that they were. And when I'm dead and gone, not even the memories of them will exist."

"It's not that simple, Anna. You must learn to take life as it comes..."

She shook her head, and for a few minutes they simply sat in silence, staring out over the river. At last she spoke.

"At any rate, simple or complex, I had no right to pour my feelings out to you that. It was foolishly dramatic. Forgive me."

He caught her arm as she rose form the bench.

"You needn't apologize... I'm privileged that you told me. I only wish I could help you."

"Oh, pshaw, Freddy. I don't need any help.." she flashed her brilliantly dimpled grin at him, revealing her perfect set of pearly teeth. "I'm all right... always have been. Just shaken up a little, I guess, and overreacting as usual. You're a darling to put up with me."

"It's no trouble at all; you know that. Shall I walk you home?"

"No. No I'm fine. Good-bye." She stood on tip toe and nonchalantly kissed his forehead with her old impudent expression.

He smiled puzzledly, half-convinced, and watched his contradiction of a friend abruptly walk off in the direction of home.

***

She scolded herself on the walk home for having told him so much. Not that she hadn't meant every word of it. It was merely disagreeable to pour out so much emotion to one person... it put one in a vulnerable position. And vulnerability was one out of many things in life that she detested.

A fine drizzle started as she neared home; her mood was too dark to care.

It brought back one memory of a wet evening many years ago. She tried not to think about it; but knew that it was useless trying to fight it and so gave in.

She had not really intended to run away from home that evening. In fact, she had hoped to return before Mother and Father could even detect her. But there was a certain rebellious excitement in the prospect of exploring the streets of London at night alone; a dangerous exuberance in feeling alone and independent in the big city that broke the dull routine of everything.

Close to midnight, when she was sure they were both asleep she very carefully slipped out the door, wearing only a thin cloak over her clothes.

She held her breath as she stepped outside. She had always been too dramatic, too sentimental for her own good. But it was truly wondrous, the sight of an almost empty street, with layers of fine drizzle softly falling over the lamp lights. She chose the direction that she had traveled the least and began walking that way.

She sighed with satisfaction as she walked, free and unrestricted. But by and by the satisfaction grew less; she knew these streets too well; they were still familiar... The smaller alleys, the ones that created a maze like web of veins throughout the heart of the city, she had never seen. Without a thought she ventured into one of them...

She wasn't sure how much time had passed when she took notice and found herself in a completely foreign neighborhood, completely disoriented of all direction. the drizzle had slightly thickened to a slight rainfall and the dampness had finally soaked through to her clothes. The empty streets that had previously seemed invitingly mysterious had lost their intrigue for her, and were now frighteningly unfamiliar. Any previous excitement for the unknown was now totally displaced by discomfort and fear. Had she not believed herself too old at eleven years of age to cry she would have willingly done so. As it was, she looked around her with wide eyes.

The street seemed completely uninhabited by any sign of life except one lone alley cat in the corner, and was illuminated by one street lamp. She stood under it and reflected. She remembered from what her father had told of the stars that she headed east, which would be in the area of St. John's Street... If she could somehow find that, she would know the way home from there... she might even succeed in slipping back in unnoticed...

Resolved, she strode in what she thought to be the right direction... more and more turns of the alleys confronted her, forcing and daring her to make a decision, until she gave up in despair. Alarmingly she discovered she had stopped near a pub, that was now closing. Its few patrons streamed out, singing disjointedly in a manner that would have made her laugh under different circumstances.

By and by the rain stopped... she huddled against the brick wall of the nearest building, shivering; fervently wishing the dawn would come soon, but knowing it still must be hours away. Slowly she sank on to the wet cobbled road, too tired to move further. Surely they were looking for her by now. But how on earth would they know what direction she had taken? She recalled with horror the story her father had recounted of a little girl in London who had ran away from home., had stopped to ask a drunken stranger for directions... and was murdered in cold blood...

On that happy thought, she closed her eyes, partly from fear and partly from exhaustion. She was nearly nodding off into slumber when she heard footsteps around the corner... experience dictated that it could not be her father's uneven tread. Her mind was too exhausted to imagine who else it could be except a complete stranger.

"Anna?"

The voice was familiar... blessedly familiar, and she exhaled loudly when she recognized the precise quality of its owner. Slowly she opened her mouth to answer, but saw there was no need when she looked up to see Sherlock Holmes face, his tweed cloak engulfing his tall frame.

"You're soaked through." He said simply, and lightly felt her forehead. Quietly he took off his cloak and wrapped it around her. "Come on, then. I dare say your mother would not think of very well of me if I failed to return you to her."

She grinned and took his outstretched hand, and they continued in silence through the streets.

Had it been anyone else who had found her she would have reacted far differently, priding herself in a dramaticly childish, heart rending description of her adventure, of how completely and utterly frightened she had been of it all. With him she did not feel so free. She was not sure what his reaction would be should she act in such a manner; she only sensed that he would see it for what what it was... pretend. And to be seen through by him seemed worse than a harsh reprimand.

"I thought you were in Sussex..." She said after much thought, clearing her throat with grave solemnity.

" I had urgent business in Scotland Yard" He said, facing forward, lessening his usual lengthy stride. "Your father sent a messenger boy to my lodgings several hours ago. It appears your mother woke up to check on you and found your bed quite unoccupied."

Her cheeks flushed warm in spite of the cold and she dared not meet his glance.

"How did you find me?"

The sun had egan to rise ever so slightly, and she saw that a smile crept on to his face.

"Ah... quite tricky, you see. One must imagine the present mental status of the person one is trying to find. A young lady, restless in nature, obviously tired of the excruciatingly dull routine of school and home, desires a bit of adventure and decides to slip outside at nighttime. Now, what path would she take? Obviously not the one that she travels everyday... and then the distinct markings of thick soled shoes in the mud do help a bit."

She smiled in spite of her exhaustion at his manner of talking to her as though she were an adult, and capable of understanding his irony, at that.

"You found her, I see, Mr. Holmes?" the thick policeman who walked their beat had bellowed.

" Yes. You needn't worry, MacCready, I'll take her home."

He had managed to find a taxi, and together they climbed in.

She remembered her thoughts as she had rode home with him that evening in silence, looking at him with unspoken admiration. It was all so simple, that he had found her and brought her home... but there was also something else. Perhaps it was that matchless feeling of being able to truly respect someone.

Often late in the evenings she would sit in the window seat and reread the old Strand articles and imagine what it had really been like for the two of them. It seemed unbelievable that the two heroes in those stories were her own father, and her own father's friend. And yet how beautifully reassuring it was to believe it.

When they were near, it seemed that that little could go wrong; and even if it did one could usually face it. And now, in the end, even he with all his brilliant wisdom was the one that was overcome.

She chuckled bitterly to herself as she neared her apartment. Oh...the cruelty of maturing.

* * *

_A/N : My apologies if you find it a little sappy... I try to hold back on overemphasizing emotion but don't always succeed._


	5. Chapter 5

_Another chapter. Not much else to say about that, except that reviews are appreciated._

* * *

"A message for you while you were out, Miss Anna."

Wearily she opened it, staring for a moment at the shaky handwriting before actually reading it.

_Dear Miss Watson,_

_By now, no doubt, you have heard news of my brother's death. I felt it my duty to inform you that the funeral service and burial will take place this Friday, 10 AM. In accordance with his wishes, the ceremony will be a small and simple one, and he shall be buried on his Sussex estate. __While your presence there would be a commendably respectful gesture, I think I speak for my brother when I say that he would not wish you to inconvenience yourself out of mere obligation, nor would he judge you in the least if you choose to remain absent.  
__  
Please wire me of your decision and arrival time and I will arrange an escort for you, as the site is quite remote. My regards._

_Sincerely,  
__Mycroft Holmes_

"Where are you going now, Miss Anna? It's still so wet..."

"The telegraph office." She said brusquely.

She dreaded what was ahead of her with all heart, but in her heart she knew it must be done.

"Funerals are such miserable affairs." Father had once said dejectedly upon returning from his cousin's funeral. She had agreed at the time, but never realized the full extent of that sentence until that cold December day some six years ago.

She had not cried much on that day; the sound of her mother's continual weeping prevented her from doing so. For both of them to weep would seem too much.... she did her best to be strong on that day, at least.

He had stood, the ever-present black band on his arm. His black top hat was off, baring his head and displaying his multitude of grey hairs with the exception of that one slightly darker spot that stubbornly refused to go away. He had not wept. She almost wished that he would have. Tears, for him, would have looked less sincere, less painful than the than the grief he bore in his grey eyes as they lowered the coffin.

When it was all over he had quietly offered Mother his arm to the car, allowing her to lean on him as he walked. She had followed close behind, her mind too numb to think.

To her he had said nothing; yet it was the first and only time he had embraced her.

She shook her head, as one who is trying to shake something out of her mind. She was tired of remembering the past and of thinking such thoughts. She cringed at the very thought of the funeral this week...it was sure to bring nothing but more sorrow, more despair...

Of course time had served to assuage the more poignant aspects of sorrow, as it had for her. She was, after all, young. Life was full of endless possibilities; and there was of course, drama school. Drama school and the theater was the solution to all her problems, the cure for all her ills. It consumed most of her thoughts. She would study for a few brief years, she was sure, and then become an actress, reciting with ease the beautiful words of Shakespeare, interpreting great art before thousands of people...

Her mother fretted dreadfully about the whole ordeal, an attitude her youthfully simplistic nature could not grasp. If she wanted to go, a way would be made.

All the same, prospects became bleak. While Father's practice had left them in a comfortable financial position, it was not one that could afford an excellent speech and drama school. And she vowed not to settle for anything less than excellent.

"Mother!? How...?" She had mumbled aloud incoherently with radiant joy the day she had received a letter of acceptance--and a bill for tuition that was more than half-paid.

Yet her mother's features expressed the same degree of surprise as her own.

"It was not you, then?"

She shook her head. "Unless some miracle has occurred to loosen the purse strings of my surviving relatives, there is only one person who would care enough to do such a thing."

"Mr. Holmes?"

She nodded. "It would not be the first time he has helped us."

"I must call and thank him."

"You should-- although I doubt it would do anything other than make him feel awkward." She paused thoughtfully. "He came here for a short visit while you were on holiday, you know."

"Oh?"

"Yes. He asked about you, and your plans for school. He told me again before he left what a fine woman you were becoming. Or words to that effect, at least. You know his round-about manner." She smiled broadly. "It is plain that where most men would view it as a duty to help their departed friend's family, he views it as a pleasure. Verbal outpourings of appreciation seldom hold much significance with him. I think, Anna, the best way to show Mr. Holmes your gratitude would be to live up to his kind words of you."

She did not wish to dwell upon the bitterly ironic outcome of that statement just now. For now it was agreeable to sit on the park bench and quietly remember.

Her first leading role. A rather inconsequential play compared to other happenings in London, performed at a rather inconsequential theater at that. Nevertheless when it was over she felt as though she had performed for the King at Covent Garden.

They had came to her when it was over, her mother embracing her with tears in her eyes. To her surprise he had come as well, standing close behind.

"You are the one who is responsible for doing this for me, sir." she had said, shaking his hand warmly. "Any future success is due to you, at least in part."

"You place too high a value on financial support, Miss Anna. I eased the way for you, no more." He said, grasping her hand firmly. She noted his once slender, straight fingers were now swollen and stiff from rheumatism. "Which is far less than what your own father did for me in the past." He noticed her head lowered. Awkwardly he cleared his throat and continued with what he had intended to say all along. "He would have been proud, Anna. Though I profess to be no expert on such things, I am certain that he is, at this, moment, very proud."

Pride. Respect. Generic words that she heard applied to nearly everything. How lovely they could be in a genuine context.

She looked up, awakening from her trance and caught a glimpse of the nearby tree. A spray of white blossoms hung down above her bench. Gingerly she reached out and touched it ; it quivered and shed the droplets of water that had weighed it down. Slowly arising, she smiled, finding comfort in her thoughts for once, even if they were only memories.

* * *

_A/N Yes, I can be quite sentimental, can I not? And this story is quite a satisfactory outlet for it...lol. _


	6. Chapter 6

_Again and again and tomorrow and tomorrow...I just felt like writing that, have no idea why ;) I won't let it end quite so depressing as this, rest assured....Thank you AmatorLinguae for the reviews. _

* * *

"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake say you're not hurt!"

His face was pale and drawn as he hovered above an even paler figure sprawled on a cold stone floor.

"It's-just a flesh wound..." He choked between gritted teeth.

Quickly Holmes took out a handkerchief and pressed it into the crimson flow's source. Yet the flow seemed to grow stronger with each pulse, drenching his trousers and creating a stream that dripped onto the floor. The detective's expression was one of carefully controlled panic.

"Holmes... I'm so cold..." Her father's face was a ghastly shade of light gray.

Quickly he threw his overcoat over him, then firmly grasped his shoulders, supporting his head.

"We'll get through. Never fear; try to stay awake, now." He watched helplessly as the doctor grew weaker.

Suddenly things seemed to shift and she discovered that her father and Holmes were in a dungeon-like pit. And to her horror she also realized that she was there, physically present , observing them from above, yet doing nothing.

The detective's eyes roamed desperately around the edge of the pit, and at last caught sight of her.

"Anna!" He shouted up to her, waving his free arm wildly. "Give me your hand, Anna! Help me move him!"

She struggled to move, but her legs refused to obey. It was as though her lower body was encased in invisible stone.

"I---can't!" She shouted. With her arms she wildly flailed out at nothing in a futile attempt to break free. Panic set in, and hot tears ran down her face and drenched her clothing.

"Then run for help! Come Anna!" He urged. She dared not look at his face; of the sorrowful, incomprehensible disapproval in his eyes.

"But I can't!" She squealed pathetically. Sweat mingled with the tears, making her clothing stick close to her skin. "I'm sorry, I'can't" she sobbed, looking once more at her father's pale face. "Father!" She attempted once more to break free.

Then from nowhere, as if to punctuate her desperation, a shrill ear shattering scream sounded three times...

"Miss?"

A hand was on her shoulder, gently shaking her and a middle aged lady's good-natured face was looking opposite hers.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I saw that the train whistle had woken you up a bit. You looked so frightened..."

She exhaled a jagged breath, running one hand over her perspiring brow, then loosening the top buttons of her collar.

"Yes, thank you. I'm quite all right now."

The woman smiled, and satisfactorily turned her attentions to her child sitting next to the window.

It had been years since she had that old nightmare, years and years. And now like her conscience it seemed to have resurfaced.

She scarcely had had enough time to regain her composure when her destination was announced. She rose wearily, collected her handbag , straightened her wrinkled blouse and disembarked onto the platform with scarcely a glance at the people around her.

"Miss Watson? How do you do? Lovely day to travel, isn't it? My name is Andrews; Mr. Holmes sent me. I'll be driving you to the church."

"Mr. Holmes?" She scanned the man's bright face, at first befuddled, then shook her head in wonder as to she could have possibly misunderstood in the first place. "Of course. Thank you."

"Well, if you're all ready, ma'am, we'd best be departing now; your train was a bit behind schedule."

She seated herself in the back with hardly another word. Her chauffeur was of that breed of people who happily chatter on of anything and everything, regardless of the receptive state of their listeners. For once she was thankful of the quality.

***

She had always thought it pleasingly odd that his eyes were so much like that of his brother's, yet still of a completely different character.

"Miss Anna." Mycroft Holmes acknowledged. He did not smile, but she felt as though he had. "Forgive me for not meeting you personally; but it my state it would have been a hindrance more than that of an aid." He supported his still wide girth by leaning heavily on a thick cane.

"Not at all, Mr. Holmes. It was more than thoughtful of you to give me a ride here. May I offer my condolences on your brother's death..."

"Don't feel awkward, Miss Anna." He did smile this time, knowingly. "Courtesy is one thing; formality quite another. I think we both must guess the state of the other's thoughts right now, do not feel obligated to express them."

His words startled her somewhat. In the past she would have attributed the statement to his characteristically cold-blooded nature. Now it simply occurred to her she had been too long accustomed to superficiality and meaningless gestures.

"The service will begin soon. Would you be so good as to sit in the pew with me?" He watched her downward -turned face intently.

"Of course." Her eyes held an expression of gentleness which many of her friends would have considered her incapable of.

She stood aside and tried to allow him to enter first, but he waved her away with a firm but polite gesture, limping painfully behind her.

Quietly she observed him when they were seated, and for a few minutes turned her attention away from her own grief to consider his. He had always been alone; but even more so now. How was it that he had endured it, satisfied with only his work? She was not sure of the answer, but had only respect for his great strength.

Her eyes roamed around the small Sussex church in the few minutes before the service started. It was small and plain, and nearly full, as she had expected. Most were farmers and various tradesman from the local community. In the front stood a row of young men from the nearby academy, doubtlessly the one he had spoken of.

Despite the self-proclaimed wish of reclusiveness of her father's friend, she had known that it would be nearly impossible for him to avoid contact with others, and consequently making an impact on their lives, such that he was. She wondered vaguely what would have happened had Mycroft ignored his wishes for a quiet burial and informed the world. Then again, she little needed to wonder about that, for she knew that the entire Sussex countryside would have been swarming with people paying their last respects.


	7. Chapter 7

_A dark chapter...Some stuff in this that justifies its T rating... I normally don't even go this far, but it serves the story and is not at all explicit_.

* * *

The procession, pallbearers, and train of mourners that followed them slowly climbed the slope, then halted precisely on one high grassy spot.

_"My villa is situated upon the southern slopes of the downs, commanding a great view of the channel..."*_

Great it was, indeed, she decided, holding her breath at her first glimpse of of the famous cliffs of clean white chalk. A fresh breeze swept up from the water and cooled her hot and flushed cheeks. It was exactly as he had described it: rough landscape surrounding the smooth water... numerous hints of paths winding towards the rocks down below, the environment as a whole, soothing yet intriguing.

"We are gathered here today..." With quiet reverence she listened to the selected Bible passages, and took part in the congregrations prayers, yet it oddly remained all in the back of her mind somehow, as one who is only half awake.

A memory was taunting her in the corner of her mind, seeking to replay itself as some kind of fitting punishment at this last farewell...

***

In terms of art quality it was rather a poor comedy; it was all rather vaudeville- bordering- on- burlesque. But it was all the rage in London that particular season; as it was particularly risque' for that year, but soon to be outdated by more racy ones in the next.

A pair of arms abruptly embraced her from behind just before she entered her stage dressing room after the show. She slapped them back quickly withan annoyed gesture .

"That's no way to treat your old friend now...and after the success of a full house!" The tall, broad shouldered man drawled. He had a little whiskey, she divined by the odor, but not quite enough to be dangerous.

"Oh... all right. You best come in if you want. Don't want everyone seeing us, do you?"

He waved carelessly with a loose flick of his hand and a hearty chuckle as she pulled him in and closed the door.

She sat down in front of the vanity and began removing jewelry. This time she was in no mood for whatever he was planning, romantic or otherwise. But Miles was simply one of those men one had to make do with... he was the stage director, after all, and then he was not at all bad looking.

"If you wanted to see me simply to sit there in silence I suggest you leave." She shot him an exaggerated glare from the mirror.

"But I don't want to leave... or just sit here, for that matter." He smiled, quite a dashing smile if not for its odd crookedness, as he embraced her again and kissed her rather passionately.

"Beg pardon, ma'am, there's a man to see you in the hall." Her attendant stood rather shyly by the door. She had been told countless times to knock, but Anna had long grown weary of chastising her.

"A man!?" Miles exclaimed with knitted eyebrows, his arms still around Anna. Gradually he broke out into a knowing grin. "Then, by all means send him in!"

"He won't come in, sir; He's an elderly gentleman, tall and dignified like; I rather fancy not too accustomed to young ladies' dressing rooms."

"Great Scott! Your father, Anna?"

"My father is dead."

"Who then?"

"I think that's my business." She writhed out of his grasp haughtily. Miles stormed out the door ahead of her, too angry to speak. She scarcely payed attention to him.

There was only one elderly gentleman that would possibly visit her; but the possibility of that seemed so ridiculous, that she scarcely believed it until it was confirmed by her own eyes.

Slowly and rather warily she stepped out into the hall. And there, quite simply and naturally, he stood by a stack of wooden crates, his quick eyes observing the bustle of stagehands and attendants moving and cleaning various objects. Finally he had glimpsed her over their heads, and turned his full gaze upon her.

She had not yet changed from her costume, which was rather a skimpy one and which, in truth, left her half undressed. All the same, she had not actually felt half- undressed until she met his stern gaze. She both shuddered and blushed at the same time, folding her arms in attempt to give herself her more cover in a seemingly natural way. Yet she knew he saw her embarrassment all the same, and silently cursed not only his power of perception but her own.

In an unexpectedly odd way she was glad to see him, too glad to be embarrassed for long. Somehow the sight of him, his prim, unassuming dress, coupled with his highly assuming figure that was so ridiculously out of place in the gaudy stage atmosphere, was comforting to her, almost as comforting as though she had again glimpsed her own father. With raised head she ignored both her own awkwardness and the stares of the people around her, approached him and chose to be the first one to break the silence.

"Mr. Holmes. It _is_ good to see you."

"Miss Anna." He smiled his grim half-smile. His tone belied a cordial fondness that negated the formality of his words.

"Is all well? No bad news, I hope."

"None of late. Except for our good Lestrade, of course. But I am sure you read of his death last year in the newspapers."

"No... No, I didn't. I suppose I seldom keep up with such matters now... but I am sorry to hear it. I always remember him as a gracious man, from the few visits he made to our Kensington house" She looked down at the floor. "It didn't seem so long ago, really."

"Yes. Times are changing quickly , it seems, a fact I am often able to forget when I am in the isolation of Sussex." He paused. "But to my great chagrin I was forced to venture into London on a small matter pertaining to Mycroft." He continued without farther prompting. "Naturally I inquired after you; but found the playbills strewn around London to be far more instructive."

She nodded.

"I suppose it would be rather silly of me to ask you what you thought of the play."

"It would, indeed."

" And yet you must have known what it would be like; I told you after mother died I was going to make a way for myself, one way or another."

"The mind's construction of a concept invariably differs from reality to some degree." He leaned his back against the wall. "Naturally I read before of your colorful accomplishments in the newspapers..."

She lowered her head. He had made no remark, yet she already she felt condemned.

"What would you have me do, then? Shakespearean fame is not so easily sought... shall I starve for lack of work while trying to land a starring role, watching my friends grow wealthy with ease on popular plays?!"

"Your ambition is admirable, my dear Anna. However it is unfortunate that it is stronger than your sense of dignity."

"I have done nothing wrong..."

"No, nothing at all, if you consider self compromise a virtue..."

She opened her mouth to retort.

"My intention for coming here was not to sermonize, I assure you." He raised his hand in both protest and dismissal, and as always she felt she should obey. "For two years now, I have left you alone, have never ventured to lecture you farther on your choice. It would have been foolishness to do so."

"Then, may I ask why you did come?" She was glad for once that he was not a man who readily expressed sensitivity, for if she had detected any trace of vulnerability in his worn face, she felt sure she would have broken down on the spot.

"That was unfair of me..." she ventured in the smallest of voices.

"On the contrary, as we are no relation to each other, it was quite a "fair" inquiry. Yet it is one of those unfortunate and rare occasions when I can not give any truly logical explanation for my actions--only a sentimental one... The love of a friend."

"The love of a friend..." She repeated, correcting her contorted expression and carefully, rigidly disciplining every facial muscle she was aware of."That, indeed... is...explanation enough..."

"You will understand what I have to say, then, and not take it as a condemnation. " She now noticed he had been leaning against the wall not so much as out of old habit as out of weakness.

"Having some knowledge of my character, you will believe me when I say that any other young woman, that was not a client of mine who was in such a similar situation, I would let alone. Her future is her own, let her find happiness as she thinks fit. I have no right, nor the will to alter it."

"Yet today, I happened to come across Baker Street today, to our old lodgings..." For the first time his words lost their eloquent fluidity."You see .. _his_ daughter is a different situation. That John Watson's daughter should come to... to this..."

She did not look directly into his face, nor even so much as breath in, lest the weight that was upon her chest cave in, and she lose control.

"Is it so terrible, really?" Her voice reduced to a whisper."I have only done what was necessary..."

"As in that dressing room rendezvous with the gentleman stage director who is incidentally, married?"

"He-- is not married." It was stupid to lie and she knew it.

"Then he should be more careful about wearing a ring on the third finger of his left hand; it gives a most deceiving appearance." He continued.

"Yet it was not only that I had in mind. You were not born to deserve such a cheap atmosphere as this, to grovel at the mercy of critics, and be exploited for vulgar entertainment. ... I refuse to believe any offspring of John Watson's did not inherit his own fine qualities." He paused a moment to catch his breath. " It is hard to struggle through life untainted, Anna... I do not make a claim to that accomplishment; perhaps noone can. But one can do better than all this... most certainly Watson's daughter can."

"You exaggerate." she managed to exhale.

"Do I?" A portion of the sharp preciseness that she remembered of him surfaced."Do you not think that if your father could see you now, he would feel much the same way? Only his concern and disappointment would be a hundred times greater than mine."

Blind anger coursed through her. Perhaps somewhere in the vast clutter of her thoughts she knew his words were justified. If so, she violently pushed the thought to the back of her mind now, both in indignance and shame.

"You said you were not here to lecture, yet you are doing an admirable job of it.. " She hissed, desperately trying to keep her voice down., but she was fast losing self discipline. "And how dare you mention his name, holding it in my face as a ... a weapon!"

"Your father's name is the last thing I would use as a weapon." He spoke after some moments of silence between them. "Only you realize that I am willing to help in any way I am able, should you wish to change your mind... for his sake, if no one else's."

"No help is needed; though your offer is generous." She endeavored to imitate his calm demeanor.

"It's best that I leave now." He paused with no acknowledgement of her previous response. "One thing, more, if I may."

"Don't say that it ends like this, Anna." His words gently startled her. " Your father and I. Our friendship... the adventures, and hardship. Do not be the one to decide that such things are gone forever only to be replaced by such a meaningless future as this..."

"A pretty speech." She said, feigning coldness for the umpteenth time. "Though, I scarcely have any idea what it means." She struggled to smile." Good-bye, Mr. Holmes. It was good to see you and remember... I wish you all the best."

Without a word he turned and left.

***

_I'm sorry, my father's friend... I'm sorry, my own dear friend. _

The procession and all its mourners had left She laid one hand against the cool marble of the headstone and began to quietly weep.

* * *

* The Lion's Mane


	8. Chapter 8

_Here it is, finished! Sentimental because I'm that way. With a Christian perspective because I'm that way too (And of course it is IC and canonical). I hope you've enjoyed it. Thank you for reading. _

* * *

She was not sure how long she had knelt there, but when she turned, she saw that only Mycroft had remained with her at the site. He leaned now more than ever on his cane, his white head bowed and thick eyebrows drawn together.

She rose to her feet and his ears, still sharp, detected the slight rustling of her clothes against the grass. She made no attempt to conceal her tear-stained cheeks as she walked towards him.

Tentatively he reached an arm out in a gesture of comfort, but, uncertain of his next action, lowered it once again. In several moments she had composed herself enough to speak, and with trembling lips asked the question she had until now been afraid of.

"How... did it happen, exactly?"

"A boy from the gables, that regularly ran errands for him, found him down there." She followed the direction of his finger, which pointed to the steep path leading down the incline to the channel.

"He had a favorite spot there on the flat rock that he was fond of sitting on, and gazing across at the cliffs. the doctor surmised that he suffered a heart attack when he tried to climb back up the incline, for the boy found him sprawled out a quarter of the way up the path, his walking stick in hand."

"To die here... all alone..." She turned her eyes to him.

"I visited him occasionally; he was quite contented here. As the situation was, I think he would have had it no other way. Almost nothing pleased him more than his bees and his library, and.. this." He outstretched his arm to indicate the grand view.

Then, remembering his purpose, he slowly cleared his throat.

"He a left a letter for you."

"A letter!?" She exclaimed with abruptness.

"I think he perhaps sensed he was close to his end. He was never one to be caught unprepared, and so apparently wrote a letter several months prior, in one of two envelopes I found transfixed to his mantel by a jackknife." He smiled slightly, as though the gesture comforted him. "One with my name, the other with yours."

Slowly, almost painfully he reached inside his coat, withdrew the said envelope, and placed it in her hands.

"And now, Miss Anna, I take leave of you. If the fancy ever strikes you, you're welcome to visit an old man in London."

"I should be most proud, sir, to visit you." she smiled, and out of impulse, before she could think of it, stood on tiptoe to lightly kiss his forehead.

He nearly started with surprise, cleared his throat yet again to compose himself, then ever so slightly smiled.

"Good day."

"Good day, Mr. Holmes."

She watched him slowly limp off in the direction of his cab, until he disappeared behind the rise of the next hill. Then, blankly, she stared at the cream white texture of the envelope, her name neatly printed on its surface with black ink. With painful deliberation she opened it and unfolded the paper inside.

_Dear Anna,_

_I had mentally prepared nearly a dozen things to write upon this paper, a dozen philosophical arguments with which to persuade you. Yet I realized they would all have amounted to the empty words of a dull sermon. __So I write this little message merely as a farewell, as indeed I owe you a proper one. _

_Regarding our last meeting, I have always been of the opinion that regret is among the most painful and useless of emotions. I would not wish anyone to feel it upon my behalf, let alone a friend. _

_As for any grief that your tender heart, so like your father's, most likely is experiencing at my death, I would ask you to dispel it, to let it trouble you no more. I once told a client of mine who was in great distress, that the world would be a cruel jest if there is no compensation thereafter. In my recent years here at Sussex, I am convinced of this truth more strongly than ever, and am certain, even as you are reading this, that the termination of my life will not mean the end, as undoubtedly it was not the end for your parents._

_My struggle is ending, yours is beginning. There is nothing else for me to say without repeating myself, except to say that I am confident in your strength of character to overcome, if you so choose._

_With that, my dear Anna. I shall close this letter. My best wishes for your every happiness, and believe me to be,_

_Very sincerely yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

***

Several passengers occasionally glanced with sympathy at the young woman with the golden-haired bob, dressed in black mourning and staring out the window with a rather odd expression of tearful happiness.

On the journey back home Anna had alternated in between sleeping, deep thought and overhearing occasional snippets of the other passengers' conversation. The couple directly in front of her seemed especially persistent in making their affairs known to the world as they chatted upon various topics throughout the whole journey. One exchange in particular caught her attention:

" A pity her husband's dead now."

"Such things are always a pity." the woman sighed. "People are born, die, are buried, then forgotten. No one remembers them...it all seems so futile..."

Anna resumed looking out the window with a slight smile, grateful that the woman was wrong, and even more grateful that she was conscious of that fact.


End file.
